Mana
by blacksand1
Summary: No two countries see magic the same way. Nor do any two social classes, or any two families. A look at the Shepherds with magic flowing through their veins and glowing on their fingertips. Contains gratuitous headcanon and worldbuilding.
1. Ylisse I

_Yiisse's nobility prizes magic– their royalty has made great strides to keep it in their line, "a gift straight from Naga" as they call it. When looking to merge houses, noble lines keep a sharp eye out for candidates with magic in their roots. The smallfolk, however, are not as reverent of it. In small enough villages, even minor talents can be burned at the stake for their power._

 **I.** Soon after her father had died and she had been crowned Exalt, one of the first things Emmeryn had done was take possession of his study. When the young ruler wasn't spending time with her younger siblings she spent most of her off hours there, either looking over documents, studying magical tomes, reading treatises on strategy and leadership, or losing herself in the odd epic. It was a quiet place, and a place with enough space that Emmeryn could practice a few small spells without needing to worry too much about setting something on fire or disappointing a tutor.

Emmeryn had, ironically enough, been studying a tome on the proper usage of staves when Chrom came barreling into the study. He was babbling excitedly and dragging Lissa along by the wrist, his younger sister looking mostly just confused. Emmeryn listened to her brother's nigh-incomprehensible excitement for a minute or two– all she could pick out was the repeated mention of Lissa and the word 'amazing'.

"Chrom," Emmeryn stated in the calm but firm tone she usually used to shut the council up; it had a similar effect on her younger brother, making him snap his mouth shut. That didn't keep his mouth from grinning or his blue eyes from sparkling, though. Lissa had wandered out of Chrom's grip and was reading the spines of the books lowest to the ground.

Emmeryn put on a smile and said, "Now Chrom, tell me what you want to say. But please do it slowly."

Chrom's little mouth screwed up in a frown for a moment, then he grinned even wider; he pulled up his sleeve and held up his elbow for Emmeryn to see. She furrowed her eyebrows and leaned down to look closer…

Her fair brows shot up to meet her hairline. Chrom's elbow had a thin pale line on it, looking almost like an old scar. But what set it apart was its silvery sheen, and how the skin around the scar looked as smooth as it had been when Chrom was a baby. She'd treated many wounds with staves– and occasionally her bare hands when it was an emergency. She'd know a wound healed by magic anywhere.

The young Exalt's mind worked quickly; Chrom had been repeatedly mentioning Lissa. As far as she had heard, Chrom and Lissa had gone to play in the gardens with minimal supervision. Chrom had a remarkable talent for getting himself hurt. The gardens were too far from the chapel for the wound to be this freshly-healed.

Emmeryn's voice came out much slower than she intended; "Did Lissa heal you?"

Chrom's response flowed out like a waterfall; "Uh-huh! I cut my elbow when I fell and Lissa started crying and I told her it was okay but Lissa kept crying then she put her hands on my elbow and they started glowing like yours do when you use a staff and then my elbow healed! Lissa can do magic! It's amazing!"

Lissa looked over with a puzzled blink; "Wha?"

Emmeryn looked between her brother and sister with wide eyes before breaking into a wide, genuine grin; "Yes, Chrom! It _is_ amazing!"

She swept Lissa up into a hug, further confusing her younger sister. Emmeryn remembered her mother disappearing soon after Lissa was born. She remembered her father glaring daggers at his youngest when her brand failed to surface. She remembered hearing the council whisper that a bastard daughter– especially not of the King's blood– shouldn't be kept in the palace while stealing furtive glances at Lissa. She remembered every time Lissa would wilt under their gaze– too young to understand the details but just old enough to know the intent.

But the Queen's line didn't have a drop of magic in their blood.

For the next week, Emmeryn would tutor Lissa personally in the basics of magic, and when the siblings walked by the council hand-in-hand Emmeryn would allow herself a self-satisfied smirk in their direction.

 _Just try throwing my sister out now._

 **II.** Miriel was a keen observer even before she'd decided to follow in her mother's footsteps. One of the first things she had observed was that while many other nobles called magic a gift, her mother did not. One day, she asked her mother why.

Her mother had set down her tome and adjusted her glasses– a sure sign to Miriel that she was going to speak at length– and replied, "We have no concrete evidence as to magic's origin. We also have no concrete evidence as to the origin of humans. I find it a bit rash to call magic a gift when we do not even know who could grant that gift to us."

Miriel blinked owlishly; "What about the Gods?"

Her mother blinked similarly back at her; "What _about_ them, Miriel?"

Miriel cocked her head to the side, and straight red bangs followed it; "The priests and clerics say the Gods made us. Wouldn't they give us magic?"

Her mother pushed some of her own red hair behind her ear; "The priests and clerics' only evidence for the existence of Gods is their faith and scripture from sources that cannot be confirmed. Without concrete evidence we cannot assume that these Gods exist."

From the next room, Miriel could hear her father sigh something about hoping Miriel wouldn't repeat that the next time he took her to a service. After all, Miriel did have a habit of repeating everything her mother said like the priests repeated the words of their scripture.

"Where do you think magic comes from, Mother?" Miriel wondered, sitting up straight again.

Her mother stared pointedly down her nose at her; "Remember the term, Miriel."

Miriel nodded hurriedly and corrected herself; "What is your… hippo-thesis, Mother?"

Her mother smiled softly; " _Hypo_ thesis, Miriel. But pronunciation aside, you have heard of Ley Lines, correct? Veins in the Earth that mages can tap into to make their magic stronger?"

Miriel nodded again, and her mother gave a curt nod before continuing, "Well, though there has never been an effort made to see what- if anything- exactly flows through these veins, I hypothesize that something indeed does flow through them that allows them to conduct and strengthen magic. This substance may even be the source of magic. This substance, whatever it may be, may also flow within the veins of mages alongside their blood. Environmental or familial factors may provide elemental affinities, and the focusing of will and control or embrace of emotion causes this substance to activate."

Miriel was about to nod a third time, but her mother spoke up again; "However. This is just a hypothesis, one that could very easily be wrong given the lack of evidence. The source of magic is one of the great mysteries of our world. One I intend to solve. And if I cannot…"

She smiled warmly at her daughter; "I fully expect you to continue that effort."

Miriel beamed back at her; nothing would make her prouder.


	2. Ylisse II

_As of this chapter, my Robin will be showing up here. I tried to eschew the Robin I actually played the game as for the generic Robin we know and love from Smash Bros, but then I decided Screw That™._

 _The most important facts are that her name is Shepard, she has build 3, build 3's face 02 and hair 01, hair color 19 and voice 3. Onto the story._

* * *

 **III.** When she was small, Sumia had seen the future in flowers. Her parents smiled at the cute, childish behavior, and her friends made good-natured jabs at her about her fake prophecies. Sumia had always just blinked in confusion, and wondered why they couldn't see what she saw. Plucking off the petals wasn't a choice between two options. She looked at the petals, and saw a myriad of possibilities.

They whispered to her, and many told her lies. She learned to tell the lies from the truth, and when she found a future that couldn't be, she plucked off the petal. This continued until she found the future that told her only the truth. And that future would be– perhaps it was because she'd divined the true future, or perhaps it was because she'd chosen the future that would take place, she didn't quite know.

All Sumia knew was that when she found the last petal, that petal's future came to pass.

Sometimes, when Sumia was emotional, her feelings would turn into light on her hands. The light had a sound to it that hummed in pitch with her feelings– high and grating when she was scared, low and sweet when she was blissful. She contemplated her light sometimes, absently wondering what it meant. She learned one day when Cordelia's bruise on her elbow disappeared beneath Sumia's frantically glowing fingers.

Cordelia had been ecstatic, telling Sumia she had a gift and that she should be proud. Happy and a slight bit disoriented, Sumia's first thought was to show her mother. Conveniently, she'd tripped on her way over, giving her a perfect opportunity to show her mother her light's full potential.

Sumia would never forget her mother's stifled scream when Sumia had healed her own scraped knee.

Sumia thinks back sometimes and reasons that she should've known that would happen. That her mother was of common birth and her father only a noble because his service as a knight in the First Ylisse-Plegia War had earned him peerage. That because of that, neither of them trusted magic, not even the kind that had saved her father's life countless times on the battlefield. That her mother would whisper to her in frantic tones never to use it, never to show it to anyone else, never to reveal that she was cursed.

Sumia buried her gift and rationalized what she saw in the flowers down to her own imagination. She ignored the hum in her veins when she saw Phila healing or heard Miriel reading aloud from tomes. She would trip and bruise her forehead and ignore the stuttering glow in her palm.

Then she accidentally healed a cut on Chrom's face, and all he did was smile and thank her for it. Shepard joined them, and when she saw Sumia staring longingly at the tome in her hands invited her over to read it with her. Later, Shepard would see her fingers glowing and ask Sumia if she'd mind using a staff to bolster their number of healers. Virion claimed Sumia's fortune-telling to be better than his own with a knowing gleam in his eye.

Cordelia had seen Sumia healing on the field, smiled, and said when the battle was over, "I always told you you had a gift."

She asked Frederick if he'd be alright marrying someone with magic, and he had simply raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why wouldn't I be?"

She didn't even mind that her parents weren't around to see her get married; as far as she was concerned, her whole family was already here.

 **IV.** Vaike pulled his hand away from Chrom's face with a grimace, the last glow on his fingers sputtering out; "Well, that's all I got. You oughta let Lissa look at that so it doesn't scar."

He broke into a grin, cuffing the prince on the shoulder; "I mean, without your pretty face you're nothing!"

Chrom smiled, though the smile turned to a wince when it stressed the scratch on his face; "Yes, all I'll have left is my title and incredible amounts of wealth. Truly I'll be lost." Vaike snorted, but said nothing as the two of them started back towards camp.

Chrom put a hand to his chin, then asked, "Vaike, why didn't you tell me about having magic?"

The blond fighter shrugged; "I 'unno. I've never been that great with it so I kinda forget I've got it until my hands go all glow-y."

Chrom shook his head with a smirk and muttered under his breath, "Should've known that'd be it."

The prince changed the subject; "But how did your village feel about it? I hear…" Chrom winced, "Sickening things about how smaller villages react to magic."

Vaike quirked an eyebrow; "I ain't heard any of it."

"It's probably best that you haven't," Chrom murmured, pushing away memories of books with haunting illustrations– so detailed he could feel the heat of the flames and hear the screams of torment from the ink lines.

The fighter shrugged; "Almost everyone had magic in my town. It was rarer to have non-magic kids than ones with it. Folks said it was something in the ground, veins of… think they called it Mana?"

Chrom perked up; "Your village must have been on a Ley Line. Ylisstol is built on a convergence of them– a lot of Ylissean settlements are built along the lines that lead back to the capital."

Vaike smiled with another shrug; "Whatever you say. All I know is that I've always had a little magic. Everyone I knew did."

Chrom smiled softly; "Your village sounds like an interesting place. Emmeryn spoke highly of it after she visited… You'll have to take me there next time we have liberty."

Vaike grinned; "Sure thing. I've spent way too long on your turf. Time to take you to mine."

"Do you have to phrase _everything_ like it's a fight?"

"'Course I do! It's more fun that way."

 **V.** Kellam was alone in the crowd as he watched the young woman go up in flames. Her screams of agony resonated with the frantic humming on his fingertips. He had that feeling at the base of his skull, the one that let him know he was all but invisible right now, yet he still hid his softly glowing hands in his pockets.

Everyone was cheering, but Kellam was trying his best not to cry. He had liked Miss Clara. She would smile whenever they saw each other and sneak him rolls she'd made at the bakery, and at village festivals she would sometimes make little fireworks from her hands when she thought nobody else was looking. Everyone had liked her; the baker had said she was his prized apprentice, his mother had called her a lovely young lady, and his father had been in talks to have her married to his oldest brother.

But now they were calling her a demon and crowing for the nine Hells to take her back.

He ran home long before the crowd had dispersed and Miss Clara had well and truly died. He spent the rest of the night in his room, weeping and promising himself never to show his glowing hands to anyone.

He didn't want to burn.


	3. Ylisse III

**VI.** Despite their difference in age, Ricken and Maribelle's magical talent had emerged at the same time. For a while, they were tutored together. Maribelle would hold it over Ricken's head that she was doing so much better with Wind magic than he was, and he would just frown and zap her with the most minor lightning spell he knew.

She'd get him back for that by making him chase his hat on a gust of wind for hours.

Then, when puberty smacked Maribelle in the face, her father suddenly sent her to be tutored by the Clerics in the palace chapel. She didn't mind healing– in fact, she had a great talent for it. Healing fell under the umbrella of Light magic, which required one to fully embrace the power of their emotions. Few were as in touch with and unashamed of their feelings as Maribelle was, but then again Maribelle wasn't ashamed of much of anything.

What Maribelle minded was being taken from Ricken and the others under the general noble tutor. She had enjoyed messing with Ricken, either blowing his papers out of his hands or passing small charms back and forth while they were supposed to be paying attention to the tutor. She minded not being allowed to even _look_ at Anima tomes anymore. She minded her only answer for when she asked her father why she was taken away was that it "wasn't proper" for a young noble lady to be a mage, and that he'd have difficulty finding a suitor who'd accept her as a mage.

Maribelle would mutter to herself that a suitor who wouldn't accept her as a mage wasn't worth her time.

Ricken, meanwhile, started slacking in his studies. Without Maribelle there as competition, it was difficult to find a reason to try as hard as he had. His family losing their standing gave him a reason, but it wasn't until they both joined the Shepherds that Ricken truly got his spark back and strove for excellence.

Though she had thought the strange woman uncouth and suspicious at first blush, Maribelle nearly embraced her when Shepard handed her some Sage robes and an Elwind tome.

 **VII.** Gaius had never been an especially strong talent– not particularly because he was magically weak or because he never tried to hone it, but because he'd been unlucky enough to have a strong affinity for Light magic.

Even when he was a kid, it was difficult to get him really excited. The way his mother had told it, he was even born calm and laid back. He just simply didn't _feel_ strongly enough to make his magic worth a damn. Sometimes he would look at his sputtering fingers and think _If only I could do Anima magic, then this would be worth something_.

But he still knew enough to heal his own scratches and bruises, and that was good enough for a thief that couldn't rely on anyone. In fact, it made him pretty popular during his stint in prison, as his fellow inmates were too proud to go to the prison doctors when they got hurt and the corrupt priests in there with them were too proud to heal common thugs.

And since his magic was so weak, there was no risk of him getting discovered as a minor talent while hiding in rural Ylissean villages and getting burned at the stake. He'd been lucky enough to live in a town that straddled the border between Ylisse and Regna Ferox– in Ferox, magic was just another skill, and that's the way people in his home had seen it as well.

That's also why Gaius liked running with foreign thieves and thugs. Feroxi bands wouldn't care if they saw him healing a cut on his arm, and Plegians would eye him warily but not trouble him unless he troubled them. And Gaius knew he was safe under the Shepherds, since they were headed up by Ylissean royalty, and rich Ylisseans couldn't get enough of Light magic.

Then one day Shepard threw him a staff and some odd-looking clothes, and when he raised an eyebrow, she just grinned and said, "Did you really think I'd let a Light mage go to waste?"

Gaius' eyebrow went higher and he smirked around the lollipop in his mouth; "You do know how Light magic works, right? Sorry Bubbles, but I'm just not perky enough for staves."

She kept smirking; "Neither is Kellam, but he's healing with the best of them. Spend some time with Lissa, she's our best Light mage."

Gaius shook his head; he knew better than to argue with Bubbles, because she knew better than him about most everything. But what was more pressing was a question on his mind:

Who the Hell was Kellam?

 **VIII.** As far as Panne understood, Taguel didn't do the same kind of magic as man-spawn. Their magic required totems, rituals. They used earth, plants, water, and other such elements the man-spawn had somehow lost. She never learned anything more about Taguel magic before her warren was razed. The only magic she'd known she could do was harness the power of Beast Stones. She honestly thought nothing of the glowing on her hands– she had nothing to compare it to, and it didn't seem to do her any good, so she ignored it.

Then, during the siege on Ylisstol's palace, she had seen that little blonde man-spawn princess' hands glowing as she used the staff she held to heal.

After weeks of pondering, Panne requested a staff from Shepard. The man-spawn who smelled far too much like the excitable dragon-spawn was taken aback, but handed her a Heal staff and told her to be careful. Alone in a remote corner of the camp, Panne thought of the glow on her hands, the glow on the man-spawn princess' hands and how that had made the staff shine like the moon. She tried to make the glow appear…

And nothing. She furrowed her eyebrows; was it not a matter of willpower? Of focus? That's what she'd heard other man-spawn say about their magic. Panne could focus, and she had plenty of will. Perhaps it just needed more? Panne perhaps was there for an hour, staring intently at her hands and the staff, before she gave up.

She was about to leave and return the staff, surmising that Taguel just weren't made for man-spawn magic, when a familiar lazy drawl remarked, "I see you're having some trouble."

Panne scowled to herself and turned to face Gaius; after she'd gotten the candy-obsessed man-spawn down from the cliff, she'd been trying her best to avoid him. It seems her efforts were moot. His self-satisfied smirk made her foul mood even fouler, and the tips of her fingers began to glow just out of her sight.

Gaius let out a low chuckle and held his hands up in a warding gesture as he walked closer; "No, seriously Whiskers, I understand your problem. I've got Light magic, but me and staves don't mix either."

Panne cocked her head slightly to the side as she mused, "I never took you for a healer."

Gaius shook his head; "I'm not, really. My problem is probably exactly the same as yours."

Panne snorted; "Considering _I_ don't even know my problem, I doubt you know either."

Gaius quirked an eyebrow, but didn't lose his smirk; "Tell me Panne, do you know how the healing magic Lissa and the other healers use works?" Panne shook her head slowly.

The thief gave a curt nod; "See, the power of Light magic is directly tied to your emotions. You have to embrace them, and _really_ feel them in order to make that magic do anything worthwhile. That's why sensitive types like our little Princess and Twinkles are so good at it; they feel the right things– worry, joy, things like that– and they feel them deep."

Panne frowned and wagged the staff in her hand as she asked, "Then why are staves necessary?"

"The very best are often working with a _lot_ of emotion, and that equals a lot of power," Gaius replied, "Usually since they're running on that much, it's hard to keep it steady. The staff does that for them. It's got enchantments of its own that focus Light magic's raw power into something that won't blow your arm off."

Gaius paused, then let out a light chuckle and wondered, "Is this making any sense, Whiskers?"

Panne paused for a moment, looking at the staff in her hands, before she looked back up and answered, "Actually, I do understand this. It's similar to how Beast Stones work– we pour righteous fury and boundless confidence, everything that makes us Taguel, into them. And in turn they make us into true Taguel."

Gaius grinned; "Yeah, see, the thing that makes you and I shitty staff-wielders is that we've got all the focus but none of the power. Me, it takes something special to make me really feel what you've gotta feel to be a healer. I can't speak for you, but you're probably the same."

The thief leaned back and looked off into the distance; "I hear there used to be Light magic tomes that had spells like Elfire and Elwind– things good for battle. They ran on the feelings I _can_ bring up. They were mostly burned though. Guess they were _too_ out of control."

Panne quirked an eyebrow; "For someone who claims to not be very good at this, you know an awful lot about it."

Gaius shrugged; "Well, Miriel's always telling the swordsmen how to adjust their stance but she's never swung a sword in her life. Don't have to be good at something to know about it."

Gaius stood up a little straighter; "Look, here's some serious advice– The way I've been doing it is that I find a memory that automatically brings up good feelings and tap into that. It's been serving me well so far. It might help you, who knows?"

Panne pursed her lips; "I… do not have many good memories. But I will endeavor to try."

The Taguel closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and delved back. She found the blurry memories of her warren, of kin, of safety and warmth beneath the ground in the burrow she'd shared with her many siblings, of the light streaming through the trees and the calls of the birds.

She opened her eyes to see the head of the staff glowing in tune with her fingers, and just beyond that Gaius smiling fondly at her.

She offered the man-spawn– the human– a soft, unsure smile in return.


	4. Ylisse IV

**IX.** Cordelia's parents usually reacted to her showing off with praise, encouragement, and a warm kiss on the forehead. She expected the same thing when one day she was able to produce a small sphere of pure night in the palm of her hands.

Cordelia was young, but she was intelligent. She noticed her parents' odd reaction to her newest gift. First, they both reacted with wide eyes and a slight flinch backwards. Her mother gasped and stumbled, and needed her father's help to keep her from falling over. When they regained their composure and saw the confused furrow of their daughter's brow, they pasted on smiles and gave her lukewarm praise and kisses.

But what sealed it for Cordelia was her mother whispering, "It is lovely dear, but maybe you should focus on your other talents?"

As Cordelia grew older, she started to see why she'd been dissuaded. Perhaps if she'd made a small flame, a few sparks, a little gust of wind, or a little ball of sunlight, her parents might have been more receptive. They were lower nobility and had grown to accept Anima and Light magic. Her mother was from a merchant-class family and still held some superstitions close to her heart. But like any Ylisseans of their generation, Dark magic put the fear of the Gods in them and reminded them of "the desert heathens" they'd been told bedtime horror stories about.

And as Cordelia found from her own secret training, Dark magic was as easy as breathing for her.

She stayed away from harmful curses, instead working on her little ball of night. She realized that Dark magic was a force of will and of faith– you had to both imagine what you wanted, and believe that you could make it happen and you _would_ make it happen. Perhaps Cordelia was a perfect match for Dark magic; after all, she had no shortage of will or self-confidence.

At ten years old, Cordelia could make a dome of darkness surround her, blocking out the sun. At fifteen, she could make stars appear in her dome. At eighteen, she could make her dome big enough to cover her bunk in the pegasus knights' garrison and make a crescent-shaped sliver of moonlight.

And at twenty-three, Shepard called over her shoulder with a Second Seal in hand, "Cordelia, do you have any magical talent?"

Cordelia replied by turning the walls and ceiling of the barracks into a sea of constellations.

When she donned her sorceress robes, Henry came barreling up to her talking even faster and with more cheer in his voice than she could've imagined. What shocked her though was Henry asking her to teach him how to make her night sky.

Cordelia had cocked her head to the side; "But I thought you knew everything there was to know about Dark magic."

Henry shook his head like a dog shook off water; "Nah, the place I was schooled in was basically just a factory for magical killing machines. I wasn't taught anything that couldn't potentially be used to kill somebody, nya-ha!"

He stopped mid-sentence, put a hand to his chin, then remarked, "Well now that I think about it if you take out the stars and make a big enough area of darkness you could use it to shock and blind an incoming army. Why _wasn't_ I taught how to do that?"

Cordelia suppressed a shudder, but agreed to share with Henry what she'd taught herself. As she showed him how to put stars in his sky, he showed her how to curse a fatal illness into nothing more than the common cold. She took him for a ride on the back of her pegasus, and he introduced her to every single one of his crow companions.

The ring he gave her was inlaid with a band of stars.

 **X.** When she took Shepard's advice and decided to try being a mage, Nowi could only blink owlishly as Miriel and Ricken tried to give her pointers. They talked about fine control of your emotions, about willpower and focus. She'd had no idea humans had such a hard time with casting magic.

Nowi would skim the tomes given to her mostly just to be polite. But when she went out onto the battlefield, her tome remained safe in her pack. Because for manakete, casting magic was a simple matter of Speaking. She didn't need to think about focus– she simply shouted the Words, and the spell was cast.

Her magic fascinated the humans, and Nowi was fascinated by what they couldn't do. Even without her Dragon Stone, Nowi could spit her beautiful fire. With a Word she could produce, fire, lightning or wind. But she could also call ice, water, earth, the elements humans had forgotten. She could call a storm with her Voice, or clear the skies. She could make herself swift or push aside anything that stood in her path.

The closest thing Nowi could do to human magic was use her Dragon Stone– as Light mages would pour their heart into their staves, she would pour her heart into her Dragon Stone, and it would show her as she truly was. The Laguz– _Taguel_ , Nowi corrected herself (these strange mortals and their ever-changing names; at least Manakete had stuck around)– understood that much, and in that way the two of them shared a silent companionship.

Nowi felt apart from the other mages, but that was no surprise. She was apart from most of the army. She tried her best to help Miriel understand her magic for scientific purposes, tried her best to help Ricken learn spells that were similar to her Words, but in the end Nowi's magic was just too different from that of her human companions for her to truly help. They needed to concentrate, control their will and their emotions, control everything. Nowi just Spoke, and it was.

She had thought her magic would remain apart forever. And then, little Nah had come through, understanding little about her own Voice. Nowi had grinned wider than ever.

She would greatly enjoy teaching her hatchling to Speak.

 **XI.** For a long, long time, Libra could barely understand why his parents abandoned him. He would never agree with the decision or truly forgive them for it. Everything that had happened to him ensured that he couldn't. But on an intellectual level he couldn't comprehend why they'd done it. As far as he'd known, he had been a perfectly normal if quiet child.

Then he'd gone on his first missionary journey into rural Ylisse and gotten a stone thrown at his face for healing someone.

As a cleric healed his split lip, he had thought back to his village. It had been a tiny thing in the mountains north of Ylisstol, where men were miners and if a woman cut her hair short she was burned at the stake. Maybe he had showed signs of magical potential, maybe he had just said something wrong– it didn't take much to make folk like that turn sour towards you.

White magic had been perfect for him; first, as a way to turn all his frustration, all his fear and despair, into something positive. And when that was no longer enough, as a way to remind himself that he wasn't empty, that he was capable of feeling the joy, the compassion you needed to make a Catharsis staff more than just a poor bludgeoning instrument.

Yet still Libra felt wrong. Often he would need to force positive emotion up and push anything else he felt back, putting in so much more mental effort than you really needed to work a simple Mend staff. And he was taught never to kill in hatred, so he couldn't put all of those wasted emotions into the swing of his axe.

He was off-balance. Everything was coagulating, festering into something poisonous and potentially dangerous, but he had no way to get rid of it. He was afraid. Afraid that he would hurt someone when this venomous, hazardous mass finally got too big to support its own weight.

Then, one day in the Shepherds' barracks, Shepard came jogging up to him with at least three more tomes than usual and an excited smile straining not to break into anything wider; "Libra! Hey, can I talk to you?"

Libra pasted on a serene smile; "Of course, Shepard. How can I help you?"

Her smile exploded into a beaming grin; "I've been watching you on the field, and I noticed you have _huge_ amounts of magical potential! Like– Miriel and Tharja are two of the most powerful mages we have but you almost outshine them in terms of raw power. So, I'm thinking maybe we should try having you go through some Mage training! See if you can do anything with Anima or Dark magic!"

Libra worried at the inside of his lower lip with his teeth; "I'm… I've been training my whole life as a healer, Shepard. I'm not sure if I'd be suited to offensive magic."

"If you're not comfortable with it, I'll totally understand and not bother you about it again," Shepard replied, "But it couldn't hurt just to try, right? Just like– we'll do some basic stuff with the lowest level tomes I can find, just to see if you've got any affinity. It'll be fun!"

Libra frowned for a bit longer, then gave Shepard a small but genuine smile; "Alright. If this is what you think is best, I'll give it a try."

Libra, it turned out, had enough raw magical talent to overpower his Light affinity and make him not just decent but brilliant with Anima and Dark magic. He let Dark magic sit by the wayside (as a man of God, he still wasn't _quite_ comfortable with it), but agreed to train seriously in Anima magic. And immediately he was finding his balance again.

Anima magic looked at first to be the exact opposite of Light magic– if you tried to fully pour your heart into it, your Fire spell would burn your face off. But it didn't require the suppression of emotions. Instead, it required the tight control of them. It required drawing on the specific feeling, focusing that specific power you needed, pointing in the right direction and letting it go. In a way, Libra had already been doing that for years. Now that he was turning his pettier, uglier feelings into wind, fire and lightning, the kinder ones were easier to find, easier to draw upon.

But he didn't truly find his balance until he was pushed by Shepard into studying Dark magic under Tharja.

As Tharja instructed him time and again, Dark magic would be ruined by emotion. Even the tight focus Anima magic used wasn't enough. If you didn't have complete control over your mind, the consequences would be horrific. She described to him all the times Cordelia had temporarily blinded herself in the middle of battle, all the times Henry had cursed himself into vomiting for hours, all the times she had to get her own fingers reattached.

It was incredibly difficult. You had to empty yourself of all but your willpower and your faith. Libra had feared many times that he was simply an empty shell; in trying to learn Dark magic, he learned that was further than the truth than he could possibly imagine. His problem was that he had _too much_ inside him. Too much baggage weighing him down, too much emotion kept inside so he would appear the perfect monk, and his Light magic affinity encouraging him to _feel_.

Tharja taught him how she had been taught. She forced him to sit, close his eyes, and breathe. To focus on his breath until that was all there was. Only then would she begin instructing him on proper spells. It took him three full weeks.

He had thought this process similar to prayer, but found himself incapable of doing as Tharja did when his thoughts drifted to the Gods. He tried to put himself in a state of focus as he did with Anima magic, and that only resulted in him creating flame when Tharja told him to create a ball of pure night. He would get frustrated. He would storm out. Tharja would drag him back in and the process would begin again.

On his third week, Tharja began differently; "Libra. Obviously, thinking about this my way isn't working. Thinking about this the way you think about other things isn't working. We're holding everyone up by how much progress we're not making. So we've got to try something new."

Libra had only nodded silently; he was past frustrated. Now he was only humble.

Tharja shifted into a cross-legged sitting position; "Alright, Libra. When you close your eyes this time, I want you to think about your breath in a different way. When you breathe in, think back to a memory. One of your bad ones."

"I have a lot of those, this might take a while," Libra remarked with a raised eyebrow and the ghost of a smirk.

Tharja frowned at him, but continued, "I want you to hold that breath for a few seconds. And when you breathe out, I want you to let it go. Let it go back into your past, where it can't hurt you anymore. And if this doesn't work," Tharja threw her hands in the air, "Then I hate to disappoint Shepard, but I'm done with you."

Libra nodded silently again, closed his eyes, and inhaled.

He thought of the stone that split his lip, of how his kindness had nearly gotten him and his brothers and sisters under Naga burnt alive, of how he'd felt nothing but simmering, impotent rage. Of all the times that scene had repeated in the land that claimed to love all the Divine Dragon gave to them. Exhale– _they had all lived, and if the villagers could not accept Naga's gifts, then he would forgive their ignorance._

He thought of every time someone had mistaken him for a woman, of the creeping discomfort in his own skin, of how sometimes he wanted to tear it all off, of the hatred he'd felt at the Gods for making him… like this _._ Exhale– _he knew who he was, Tharja knew who he was, and the Shepherds knew who he was. No matter what others thought when they saw him, no matter if he had to struggle to make his body fit his mind, nothing would change that._

He thought of the scar on his neck. Exhale– _He had a true family now._

When he opened his eyes, Libra felt… he had feared that when he truly mastered this, he would be the empty shell he thought he was. But this wasn't emptiness. It was just… calm. Calm, and assurance.

He heard Tharja's voice like she was miles away; "Now. Make a sphere of night."

Between his palms darkness coalesced into a dense ball. Stars erupted to life within, casting faint specks of light on the walls of the tent. A small full moon glowed at its center.

Tharja gave a small smile; "Not bad for a beginner."


	5. Regna Ferox

_It is said that in Regna Ferox, strength is the only law. That is, perhaps, an oversimplification. To clarify, in Regna Ferox_ competence _is the only law. It doesn't matter what your set of skills is, only that you_ have _skills and can use them well. This applies to the blade as well as the sickle, the lute, the tome or the staff. Magic is the same as any other skill in Regna Ferox– Train it and apply it well and you will be respected._

 **I.** She looked at the glow on her fingertips with a growing sense of dread. The pit in her stomach was widening out into a canyon. Olivia clasped her hands tight against her chest and curled in on herself, willing the light away and trying desperately to remember how to breathe.

Nobody could know about this. If it got out that she had magic, her troupe would ask her to start using it. They'd start with having her use it to add a few flashes of light to her dances, then branch into healing– they had no healer among them– then even fight with it. They'd start depending on her skills; people always depended on magic when they found it.

She was already terrible at dancing, singing, just about everything. She would be terrible at magic, too. It flashed clearly behind her eyelids– a botched fire spell burning down a village, a poorly-cast healing spell turning a small scratch into a huge gnarled scar.

And it would be dangerous. She could be killed for this in certain parts of Ylisse, burned alive to send her back to however many Hells they believed in or drowned in an attempt to prove her innocence. She _would_ be killed for this in Plegia, a sacrifice of light for their dark god.

Olivia was so wrapped up in her own head, in all the nightmarish futures she could imagine that she only barely heard Joaquin calling her name.

"Y-yes?!" she squeaked, turning around and hiding her hands behind her back.

The troupe's vihuela player shook his head, far too used to the dancer's anxiety to notice anything truly wrong; "We're performing in twenty minutes, Olivia. We need to get ready– that nobleman of yours is here again."

She grimaced, thoughts of her magic buried beneath this not-so-new source of anxiety; "Do I have to perform tonight? That man is…" She shuddered at the thought of him.

Joaquin crossed the distance and gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder; "He'll storm out without paying if you're not on, and he pays handsomely. Don't worry too much– we'll be back on the road tomorrow."

Olivia rolled her eyes; Joaquin should know better than to ask _her_ not to worry.

 **II.** Flavia never forgot the day she first showed signs of magical talent; her mother in a flurry of excitement had taken her to the city's shaman, had her display her new skill in hopes of apprenticing her (since she'd displayed a disturbing lack of aptitude for leather working, her mother's trade)… and the shaman shook her head with sad eyes.

"I'm sorry, young Flavia," she had sighed, "But you just aren't suited to magic."

That was the day Flavia had also discovered her capacity for rage. Her mother had taken her out of the temple before she could cause a scene, but she'd been about ready to spit fire. Considering her talent, she probably could have done it too with how much rage she was putting behind it.

It didn't matter that Flavia's talent was minor, only truly good for making her a little tougher and quicker-healing than most– _nobody_ told her what she could or couldn't do.

She would calm down, and find through stubborn practice that her magic wasn't any good for healing. But like many with the gift of a little Light magic, she had something else too.

Some could see the future in flowers. Some were just a little more durable than most. Some could make themselves blend seamlessly into the crowd. Some could make themselves quiet and stealthy as a black cat in the night.

Flavia discovered her true gift when she joined a mercenary company. Often without knowing why, her comrades deferred to her instead of their commanding officer. She would make the strategies and the rousing speeches that her comrades actually listened to. The few survivors of enemy bands would join if she spoke to them.

She would never be a great shaman or mage. But that bit of magical charisma would make her the Khan Lioness of the East.


	6. Rosanne

_Valm is a diverse continent, and no two countries look at magic the same way. Rosanne perhaps has one of the harshest views on the matter– magic has always been considered the realm of women and of the church. And the church is considered a haven for smallfolk trying to feel more important than they are. All daughters of the ruling house with the gift have been sent to the convents. If any sons have had the gift, they have been quietly and cleanly removed from sight._

 **I.** Virion had known the exact moment his mother was going to die.

It had suddenly come to him one day when he was sitting with her in the manor's gardens. It was a clear, detailed image: _her wasting disease would finally claim her exactly two weeks from now, and his father would wake to his wife still and limp like a discarded rag doll._

He had been very young then, so all he could do was cry and cling to her while she tried without success to calm him. When he was coherent enough to speak, to sob his vision to her, she would awkwardly try to put it out of his mind and rationalize it into something understandable.

Exactly two weeks later, his mother was gone.

He had crept towards his parents' room unnoticed in the early hours of the morning, and through a crack in the door saw the scene from his vision lit by the rising sun. For a few hours, he simply hid where he wouldn't be found and wept into his knees. When he returned to his father, he tried to tell him of his vision, of how he'd _known_ this would happen.

His father had smacked him across the face.

Virion would only find out why much later on in his life, after some research done in the depths of the night. Somewhere in House Virion's long history, a mage of unparalleled strength had married into their line right under their noses. He couldn't find any detailed accounts as to how she'd hid her talent; what he did know is that she had been gifted with second sight that she had disguised as being exalted messages from Naga.

Second sight ran strong in the family even still, a sign of magic in their veins. All before him who had it were removed before their magic could flourish in earnest and were forgotten, their names kept only in the most secret of documents, their disappearances disguised as death in their infancy.

But even when he didn't know that, even when he was young and didn't quite know why his father had suddenly struck him, he knew never to speak of his visions again. Soon his father reasoned to himself that maybe he'd heard his son wrong, or his child had been lying, and slept much better.

Virion reasoned with himself for years, until he'd fooled himself into thinking that his visions weren't real. The more he denied them, the less clear and more vague they became. He tricked himself into thinking he was tricking others.

The last clear vision he had was of Valmese cavalry razing the countryside, the streets of Rosanne running red.

He didn't hone his talent in secret. Any spark from his fingertips was quickly extinguished. He ignored part of him that hummed when he walked along Ley Lines, that sung when a staff healed his wounds, that screamed when he went through a threshold without permission. He buried it deep, denied it so fiercely that it shriveled and withered in the darkness.

But even when Shepard coaxed it out again, his blood just didn't sing when he tried to bend the wind to his will. The fire and lightning he created were naught but sparks compared to what all the others with talent could fashion from air and mana. Nothing but watching Nowi conjure water from her voice or simply dipping his fingers in a running stream could invigorate him.

One afternoon, he had asked Miriel if there were ever tomes of Water magic. She replied that most were lost, and the few that remained were in tongues so old that translation would take several lifetimes.

Virion smiled a small, tight smile; whether that was a shame or a blessing, he would never be sure.

 **II.** Cherche had never lacked the enthusiasm or the desire to do white magic. The miracles the sisters in the convent could perform amazed her every time she saw them– to be a part of that would be a blessing in and of itself. She read tome upon tome, looked at staff upon staff, did everything she could to prepare for the day when she could properly begin cleric training.

Yes, Cherche hadn't lacked enthusiasm. What Cherche _had_ lacked was strength.

Just as she'd been taught, she'd poured all her heart into the spell, and only got a flickering glow and a half-healed bruise for her trouble. All the sisters gave her the same sympathetic looks and pats on the shoulder– That's just how it was, sometimes. There were those who could read well within days of learning and those who would struggle all their lives. Likewise, there were those with magic that ran rich in their veins, and there were those who had only a few sparks to spare.

Instead of going home, Cherche had wandered aimlessly. What would she do now? Become a vassal in House Virion like all the rest of her family? What a dreary existence that would be, she thought. Living in that stuffy manor, doing as she was bade by a bunch of airheaded nobles from dawn until dusk every day for the rest of her life… At least the clerics helped people when they weren't contemplating the teachings of Naga. At least they got to go on missions, see the world.

Cherche only realized she'd strayed into Wyvern Valley when she heard the sharp, tortured cry of a young wyvern. And it was far too close to her.

The young girl slowly turned to face the creature, careful not to make any sudden moves. This wyvern was indeed young– it was perhaps only a slight bit larger than a pony. It was still in the process of growing its adult scales, its wings looked weak and flimsy, and the poor thing was covered in all kinds of gashes. Cherche looked into its wide, pale yellow eyes– she saw pure animal fear.

Cherche's pity for the creature promptly made her forget everything she'd been taught about approaching wild wyverns, and she immediately started walking towards the reptile; "You're hurt! Stay still, let me–"

 _Heat_.

It took her a moment to realize the wyvern's fire breath had narrowly missed her head. She would be in too much physical shock for a while yet to notice the fresh, angry burn on her shoulder and burned-off hair. Instead, Cherche frowned deep, rushed forward, and bopped the wyvern on the nose with her heavy training staff. It let out a much higher, more warbled cry as it scrambled backward and thrashed its tail.

Mustering up all her mimicking talent, Cherche aped her mother and all the ladies she'd seen, putting her hands on her hips and snapping, "That was very rude!"

The little wyvern stared at her for a moment more, but when it opened its mouth to spit more fire, Cherche bopped it on the nose again. More crying and tail-thrashing from the beast.

"Now," Cherche said in the ridiculous pantomime of seriousness only children can achieve, "You are going to sit there and let me help you or I'll hit you again! Get it?"

The wyvern made a sort of gurgling chirping noise and didn't move. This was good enough for Cherche. The little girl walked to the wyvern's flank, placed her hands on one of its smaller gashes, and thought of the creature. Of how sad and lonely it looked. Of all the wounds covering it, of its sad wailing, of how it couldn't even fly away when it saw a human.

Her hands glowed in patches, but the wound healed. The large silver scar was gnarled and twisted, but the wound was closed. The wyvern made another gurgling chirp. Cherche beamed back at her new friend.


	7. Chon'sin

_Any map of Ley Lines would show you that they thin out considerably when you reach Chon'sin. Incidentally, magic is very rare in the country, and those born with it are usually either very minor talents. Magic isn't especially prized or especially detested, but all in Chon'sin agree that those born with magic have loaded destinies._

 **I.** _Red._

 _Red on the discarded blades and the grass and her neck and her belly and she's choking on it sputtering out like a flame. Pressing my fingers harder against the wound trying to make them glow like I did that day by the river but they only flicker and fade and she's fading too don't know what to do so I press harder and choke not on red but on tears._

 _Touch feather-light on my wrists and finally I stop, look to her and she smiles and for that moment we're at the river and my hands sparkle like the lightning bugs. But the red seeps in and my fingers are glowing but I can't see it beneath the red. She shakes her head before letting it fall and the red spreads and spreads and it's all I can see please no Ke'ri please don't leave me alone_ –

Lon'qu shoved the staff back into Shepard's hands quickly enough that she couldn't notice them trembling; "I'm a warrior, not a healer. Don't waste your time and mine on this pointless endeavor." He turned on his heel and left before Shepard could say another word.

 **II.** "Say'ri? You alright?" The princess blinked rapidly and shut her mouth tight, fighting a blush– 'twould be ungainly to do so in front of Shepard.

"F-forgive me, my friend," she stammered, "I have just… never seen a horse of this like before."

Her eyes drifted back to the strange creature. It stared back at her, eyes shining red lights in a deep black face. The creature was unlike even the pegasus she'd rode before this promotion. It moved like a bird– quick, sharp and precise as it looked towards some noise from outside the stables. Its pelt wasn't even truly fur, but instead a fine coat of tiny feathers that shimmered in the light.

Shepard put her hands on her hips as she explained, "Yeah, they're native to Plegia. I'd tell you their actual name but despite Tharja and Henry's help I still can't pronounce it. We were lucky to have found some displaced in the war, but… They are very picky beasts."

Say'ri quirked and eyebrow; "More so than normal Pegasi or the Alicorns?"

Shepard snorted with a grin; "Yeah, that _is_ possible. Instead of just rearing up and fleeing if men try to ride them, they'll attack them. And if a woman without the right amount of magical talent tries to approach them they'll attack her too."

"The right amount?"

Shepard rubbed her temple; "And there's the rub. It's different for every horse. It took us _days_ to find a horse that wouldn't try to bite Olivia, and apparently Miriel and Cherche weren't suited to _any_ of our horses' tastes. This _particular_ mare has been a nightmare to find a rider for."

Say'ri pursed her lips; "Milady, I hardly think I will be suitable for her. My talent is hardly worth speaking of– I doubt this creature will take to it."

And Shepard just smiled that easy smile and shrugged; "We won't know unless we try, will we?"

Say'ri gulped– no more excuses, it seemed. She knew Shepard wouldn't think ill of her for turning back, but the way the tactician was looking at her, Say'ri would think ill of herself for not taking this chance. She turned back to the mare, meeting its beady red eyes. As she slowly raised her hand to touch the creature's head, she reminded herself of everything at stake; their army was small, they had to make up for their lack of numbers with skill. If she didn't try to gain every advantage she could, she would drag the army down, and if she couldn't contribute to this army she had no right to lead her country–

Say'ri's thoughts abruptly stopped as the mare's soft nose hit her hand. The dark pegasus nuzzled into her palm with a pleased sound, halfway between a chirp and a nicker. Her mouth had been pressed into a tight line, and now it sprung open, jaw nearly on the floor.

Shepard's pleased chuckle brought her back; "Look at that! She likes you! Guess you were good enough after all."

Say'ri smiled; "I suppose I am."


	8. Plegia

_Considering how very very long ago the religion came to the country, few unbiased textual accounts of pre-Grimleal Plegia exist, and of those that do many were lost in the first Ylisse-Plegia war. Therefore, their indigenous culture's view on magic is nearly impossible to discern. But Grima's Truth is quite clear on the subject:_

"Earth and Darkness serve only the Fell One, who shall feast upon those who were baptized in Naga's Light."

 **I.** Tharja lived and breathed magic since the moment she was born. Her family were nomads and always oriented themselves along Ley Lines– rarely did a day pass that Tharja didn't feel the steady thrum of magic from deep beneath the Earth as she walked along the sand or rested in one of their caravan's wagons. She could close her eyes and clearly remember falling asleep in the cool shade of the wagon's cloth cover as she focused on the drumbeats of mana flowing below her in perfect rhythm with the beating of her heart, the turning of the wagon wheels, the thumping of their horses and camels' hooves against sand and beaten-down dirt roads.

Her mother said something in one of Tharja's earliest lessons in magic– "We are the same as the Earth. At our core our heart beats, and it sends our blood flowing through our bodies. At the core of this world there is a force that sends mana flowing through the Ley Lines. Remember this as you prepare yourself to cast. You are the Earth– silent, stable, and powerful enough to make the darkness in this world bend to your will."

Tharja's family were not Grimleal. They were something much older, as old as the veins in the Earth that sent magic around the world. The Fell Dragon was a pretender to the throne of Darkness itself– that primordial force was the only thing Tharja put her strongest faith in. Darkness was as stable as the Earth; it followed the light at all paces, it was there whenever you closed your eyes, and never once did it fail to flood the room when the light disappeared. Nothing was more deserving of faith, and nothing rewarded that faith more consistently.

As she learned to cast stronger spells and crueler curses, Tharja cleared her mind with a deep breath and the same words on the exhale every single time– _I am the Earth and my soul belongs to the Shadows. Together we will bend the world to our will._

Tharja was not Grimleal, but the country had laws, and more importantly it had expectations of their mages. They were nomads, but her family couldn't run forever. The mad king's smug right hand came in on onyx wings that shimmered her blind in the desert sun, and as the dark flier's grin grew wider Tharja's scowl grew fouler. She didn't need them _all_ – the kingdom didn't need old shamans who practiced rituals outlawed and outdated, nor children who could barely speak a sentence let alone sling a spell.

But if they didn't give them at least one, all of them would fall. Tharja took a deep breath, and on the exhale she whispered in her mind, _I am the Earth and my soul belongs to the Shadows. I will bend so that the others won't break._

Plegia planned its cities similar to their Exalted neighbors, and cities on convergences of Ley Lines were constant barrages of noise with the undercurrent of many different drums beating in a different rhythm and tempo all at once. The king was a despot from afar and a monstrous fool up close. The soldiers were boorish and petty creatures seeking momentary fortune and carnal satisfaction. Grimleal mages were broken, pathetic things who existed only to serve a dragon God that would chew them up and spit them out when their promised day arose. And all the while Tharja ached for cool desert shade, the scent of herbs burned for rituals as old as the darkness behind her eyelids, and a single beautiful rhythm that harmonized with her heart.

She'd looked up to the Exalt on the cliff that day with a scowl; _disgusting, distasteful, barbarous._ Just like she'd always known the Grimleal to be.

She looked to the prince extending a hand to her in friendship with raised brows; _naiive, stupid, but charming somehow._ She hadn't expected the Ylisseans to be like this. And she hadn't expected them to give her a way out that would keep her honor intact.

She turned her tome on her erstwhile allies and hissed between spells, "I am the Earth and my soul belongs to the shadows. I've bent for long enough. Time for you to break."

Years later, the Shepherds make their way across the countryside, oriented on a Ley Line as all lines in Ylisse lead back to Ylisstol. Tharja sits in the back of a wagon, Libra at her side with an arm around her shoulders and Noire already asleep, her head in her father's lap. Tharja closes her eyes in the cool shade of the wagon's cover and listens to the horses' hooves, her daughter's steady breathing, and the thrum of the mana in the Earth.

And as it all lines up in perfect harmony Tharja smiles ever so slightly.

 **II.** Lissa cocked her head to the side; "Henry?" The Plegian dark mage continued to just stare at the space where her staff had been, eyes all the way open for the first time since she'd met him and looking either like his brain had been removed or he'd had a religious experience. The second she'd started healing him he had just gone stock still and still hadn't moved a single centimeter.

Lissa waved her hand in front of his eyes. No response. She snapped her fingers, first in front of his face and then right next to his ears. Nothing. She gently pushed him. He wobbled a bit but still stood there, silent as the grave.

The princess scowled– they didn't have time for this. So she reached out and tweaked the dark mage's nose as hard as she could with a sharp snap of, "Get it together, Henry!"

Now _that_ got a reaction. Henry's eyes snapped shut at the pain and he let out something between a yelp and a giggle. As Lissa let go of his nose, the white-haired boy shook like a dog shaking off water and grinned in her direction.

"Sorry 'bout that," he chirped, "That's the first time I've ever had magic used on me that didn't hurt! It's weird. Dunno if I like it or not."

Lissa just stared at him, mouth hanging slightly open and one eyebrow raised; something in this boy was irreparably broken, but this was a battle. She didn't have time to fix it.

The princess holstered her staff on her back and picked her heavy iron axe up; "Come on, let's get back in there."

Henry was already ahead of her, pages of his tome fluttering open as he leapt back into the horde of Risen, cackling all the way.

 **III.** This is not the first time Chrom has had to leave his tent to find his wife late at night and it will not be the last. The moon is high in the sky and full, but he barely needs that light– he knows exactly where she is. The prince makes his way towards the tent at the center of camp with the assurance that only comes as a result of constant, consistent repetition. The light breaking through the flaps in the tent confirms what Chrom already knew, and he goes inside with only a soft smirk and a shake of his head.

This is not the first time Chrom has had to stop in the entryway, absolutely transfixed by the sight of Shepard standing over the war table with her back to him in low candlelight, and it will not be the last. In this light her short ginger hair takes on a tone like the embers of a fire burning low; with her coat discarded the low light casts strong, dark shadows on the lines of her lean muscles on her back and arms, and her old, thin scars shine against the darkness like starlight.

Shepard looks over her shoulder, bright orange light reflecting in her deep brown eyes, and she gives him a small smile that says everything she used to say out loud– _Thank you for being so patient with me. Thank you for coming to find me when you could have just gone to sleep. I love you._

Chrom smiles in return and crosses the distance, looping his arms around her waist and pressing his cheek against her hair as he asks, "So what has you up tonight?"

Shepard brings one hand up to rest on his arms as she turns back to the war table; "Well it _was_ just routine stuff, but in planning tomorrow's march I brought out this map of Ley Lines and…" She cranes her neck to meet his eyes, "Have you ever spent a long time looking at one of these?"

The prince shrugs; "Can't say I have." Not that they weren't interesting and beautiful in their way, but maps of Ley Lines– especially those ambitious few that managed to chart all of them in the known world like the one Shepard still had a hand on– had so many tiny, minute lines and connections that his eyes started to hurt trying to trace them all.

Shepard turns back to the map as her smile grows wider; "Well, I got distracted and ended up really trying to trace them all and… They _all_ connect, Chrom. I don't know if I can trace all of them to a single origin point and we don't know what becomes of them when they run off the edges of the map, but every single convergence of Ley Lines has at least one branch that can lead all the way to one across the world!"

As she explains, Shepard traces the lines with her index finger, and though the many tributaries and branching paths of the veins of mana still strain his eyes in this dim light Chrom starts to see what she does. The Ley Lines form a vast web around the world as they know it, each little branch either rejoining its parent, coming together at common crossroads, or running off to places explorers have yet to chart. Whether this is reality or just his and Shepards' tired minds in the candlelight making assumptions, he can't say. But Shepard rarely steers him wrong. So he believes in her.

His wife takes her hand off the map and remarks, "I wonder… People build huge cities and monuments where the Ley Lines converge, and smaller cities fall on or near Ley Lines all the time with people not even knowing. Nomadic people travel along them, too. Is it just the magic in the ground that people gravitate to?"

Chrom presses his nose into Shepard's hair as he thinks for a moment, and he pulls away as he says, "Maybe these veins are like people. We travel the same paths and come together in the same places because we want to find each other. People want to be together. Maybe mana has that same feeling."

Shepard leans her head back against his chest and murmurs, "It might just be because it's late, but sentimental and sappy as that is I don't feel like it's entirely wrong."

Chrom presses a grinning kiss to her forehead as he laughs, "Now _that's_ high praise."

Shepard rolls up the map with a light snort; "Let's get to sleep before we start talking about 'invisible ties' again."

This isn't the first time the exalted couple has returned to their tent late at night, hand in hand, and it won't be the last. As he drifts towards sleep with his wife in his bedroll beside him Chrom uses his fingers to draw paths between the innumerable freckles on Shepard's shoulders, trying to connect every single one.


End file.
